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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25542898">a fool dances (to the sound of his own bells)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourcardflush/pseuds/fourcardflush'>fourcardflush</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gotham (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Antisemitic Language, Hallucinations, M/M, Theater Gay, Trauma, Unresolved Emotional Tension</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 09:54:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,410</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25542898</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourcardflush/pseuds/fourcardflush</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the joint goon/cop operation to suss out Professor Pyg in The Narrows, Ed finds inspiration to play Penguin in Cherry's new minstrel show. Finally, an audience that hates Oswald almost as much as Ed does. </p><p>(Set during season 4)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Edward Nygma &amp; Leslie Thompkins, Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>a fool dances (to the sound of his own bells)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>highly recommend listening to 'folklore' when reading this</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Pretending often leads to becoming a reasonable facsimile of what you mimic, even if only from a distance.”</p><p>― Jeff VanderMeer, <em>Annihilation</em></p><p> </p><p>The second worst thing about being an idiot, by far, was the eerie silence in Edward Nygma’s head. He’d liken his brain to a machine with half its wires plugged into the wrong outlets, if the ice had let him keep his…. poetic... flourish. The current him... the drab and empty him...could not even put words behind his own numb...frustration. He couldn’t understand much any more. Couldn’t absorb his…surroundings any better than a stone. He’d use just as much brain activity from staring at a wall as from trying to read, so he opted to do the former. Might as well.</p><p> </p><p>It was honestly beginning to bum everyone out. If he hadn’t picked up on it before- the lowered...frequency of Lee’s jabs, the general…. dearth of most bar patrons in his general vicinity no matter where he sat himself down to drown himself in drink for the day- then Grundy’s heavy, stinking hand landing on his shoulder cleared up any....delusions he might have had.</p><p> </p><p>“Ed sad too much,” Grundy rumbled sagely.</p><p> </p><p>“I know that, big guy,” Ed replied, shrugging the weight from his shoulder and staring down into his drink. This one was called Melon Madness. Too sweet, but just as green as everything else he orders. Not that he knows why he bothers anymore. Green was his sig…signature. Used to be. He thinks. Maybe. He’s not so sure anymore.</p><p> </p><p>Grundy was waiting by his side despite the length of silence. Probably waiting for Ed to launch into his usually spiel, on how he wouldn’t be sad for long. How <em>happy </em>he’d be- they’d both be- once Ed’s noggin got fixed. But his speeches had grown more...deflated, over time. Perhaps it was just the...addition, of alcohol, but even Ed, stupid as he was, was figuring out that Lee...was probably lying to him. How ironic. The chess player becomes the pawn. Or however that saying goes.</p><p> </p><p>What did it matter? Without his smarts, what remained of his ego buffer was weak as cracked glass. Without the company of...possibility, all that remained was memory. The return to the dock. That clawing pain scratching against his ribs as he raised his gun at Oswald. And the <em>look </em>in Oswald’s eyes...god. What had it been? A soft condescension. A sort of pity aimed straight at Riddler as he squeezed the trigger and heard an empty click.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I know you, Ed. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>If Oswald truly knew him- if what he saw made him look at him like <em>that-</em></p><p> </p><p>His thoughts swam just like that, round and round in circles with no....conclusion. By the time he dragged his attention from his over-nursed drink it was already evening. Grundy was gone, likely had wandered off to another corner of Cherry’s at some point. He was shooed  by an irritated bartender as “actual customers”, as she called them, began to trickle in. A quick glance around the place showed that Lee was nowhere to be found.Neither was Cherry. And the mood of the place was...<em>very </em>off.</p><p> </p><p>Patrons huddled in small groups, chattering nervously with one another, instead of in a single bloodthirsty glob as they usually were wont to do. The lighting might have...contributed, a pale blue instead of the usual dramatic red. Ed looked more closely as he slinked along the wall. People warmed trembling hands on the lit candles on the windowsills. It wasn’t a particularly cold day.</p><p> </p><p>He stayed at the margins, as he usually did when not goading Grundy when he fought in the ring. Unnoticeable. The faces he...observed held their usual amount of anger and blood lust, but such emotions were now bleached in their drawn features and fearful eyes. Penguin’s men had come down to The Narrows today, Ed heard. At the sound of that moniker he felt a hand clench around his heart like a fist. His thugs, criminal and cop alike, had beaten the men and terrorized their women. Threatened to harm their <em>children.</em> Destroyed their already ill kept homes. Robbed what little left they had. They chattered with each other not to gossip, but to vent. Complaints were the rallying cry of the powerless.</p><p> </p><p>“Wish I could get my hands around that greedy bird myself,” A man with a mohawk growled. He turned his head and spat. “ Bet he’d screech even then.” His pals tittered in agreement, no doubt indulging in the same shared fantasy.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Oh, you’d better not!” </em>his companion of indeterminate gender chimed in with a nasally falsetto. <em> “Ahhhhh! Save me! </em>And then we would-”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s not what he’d say.” Ed interrupted.</p><p> </p><p>The absolute worst thing about being an idiot, by far, was that Edward Nygma no longer thought about consequences.</p><p> </p><p>The group grew silent at once and turned to look at him. They did not look pleased that Ed had voiced his correction. They looked a little murderous, actually. Might not have been a good idea to poke at people that would jump at any excuse to take their frustrations out. <em>Stupid. </em>They were a pack of starving wolves. And Ed was...just…</p><p> </p><p>The man with the mohawk locked eyes with him and stepped out to stand in front of him. Ed could see his fear replaced by hunger for violence. Eyes black and shiny as a shark’s. “Ok, smart guy,” he said, his rough voice gone soft. “What <em>would </em>he say as I squeezed the life out of him?”</p><p> </p><p>Ed’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping on land. Whatever small spark that had been bouncing around his skull had gone, leaving him utterly alone. His eyes darted around the man, looking for Grundy, but the big lug was nowhere to be seen. God, what was even the point of using that simpleton if he wasn’t-</p><p> </p><p>Mohawk gripped at Ed’s shoulder and pushed, nearly sending him spralling. The saddest part was, there wasn’t much strength behind it. Little more than a pat. “Hello?”</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe he needs some inspiration!” Mohawk’s buddy jeered. Mohawk smirked at that and wrapped a leather gloved hand around Ed’s neck. “That true, Einstein? Need some...<em>inspiration?”</em> The hand began to squeeze.</p><p> </p><p>Is this what it was like for<em> him</em>? Ed wondered. Constantly manhandled and threatened because of how <em>pathetic </em>he appeared on the outside? He could name that feeling back when he was a child. Bully magnet. That’s what Ed’s mom had diagnosed him with. Boys who were both weak and annoying need to be put down with fists to learn their place. And Ed had learned. For a while anyway. Content to bend his head and take half hearted slaps. Not very <em>Penguin like </em>of him. And wasn’t that what his initial fascination had come down to? Oswald Cobblepot had been- and still was- a small bird smart enough to puff up his feathers and peck out his predators’ eyes.</p><p> </p><p>Not because he knew he ought to win, Ed realized, locking eyes with Mohawk and drawing his arm back. But because he had convinced himself that he <em>would</em>. An inevitability. For all his scheming and conniving, it was <em>that </em>behavior that stoked the rage of the most violent of beasts. A refusal to <em>know his place. </em></p><p> </p><p>A resounding slap rang so loud that the neighboring groups grew silent and turned to look. Mohawk had let go of Ed to touch at the bright red handprint on his cheek in shock.</p><p> </p><p>Ed puffed out his chest and glared at Mohawk from beneath his brow in an approximation of rage. “How… <em>dare you touch the King of Gotham,” </em>he snarled, voice nasally and shaking. It was a poor imitation, but recognizable enough for someone in his growing audience to scoff out a chuckle.</p><p> </p><p>Ed paused for a moment to survey his surroundings for a prop, settling at last on a broken chair leg. He hunched over it and limped over to Mohawk once more. Exaggerating the waddle earned a laugh, making Ed suddenly giddy. He jabbed a finger up into Mohawk’s face. He was now watching his movements with a befuddled expression.</p><p> </p><p><em>“</em>I am going to-” <em>Give you false hope. Destroy your career. Lie to your face. Freeze you in a block of ice and display you like a sedated pet, my prized possession, nothing more than-  </em>“send my lackeys after you and tear you <em>limb from limb,” </em>his voice did raise to a screech then, and he stomped his (good) foot down for emphasis, looking every bit as pathetic as a child throwing a tantrum. His audience rumbled in approval now, even Mohawk and his crew watching him with amusement.</p><p> </p><p>He straightened up into a slight hunch and turned to face the crowd. “And that goes for the rest of you!” He waved his cane at them and they jeered back in good fun. At some point the club had darkened. There was flurrying and rustling from the top balcony, and then suddenly- a spotlight. Something hot began to bubble in Ed’s chest as he sneered at his surveyors and made his way to the ring, the hunch over his cane becoming more and more pronounced as he moved to the audience’s absolute glee. Someone raised the rope for him and before he knew it he was pushed up with helping hands. He waddled to the center of his stage and raised a hand about his eyes, surveying the crowd in the dark. The noise had died down to a hush. All eyes on him, hanging on to every move he made and every word he spoke. Ed had to fight hard not to grin.</p><p> </p><p>“You are nothing but ungrateful children,” he tutted, waggling his finger. The crowd hissed. <em>Ungrateful? </em>“After all I’ve done for you! <em>I </em>pull all the strings, so all your success is because of <em>me</em>.” The crowd booed at that. <em>What </em>success? “Oh, you don’t see that?” Ed sneered “You hate me?” <em>Yes! </em>The crowd responded in a conglomerated mass. <em>We hate you! </em></p><p> </p><p>“Well you must be wrong because I know you better than you know! Your! Selves!” He pounded his cane for emphasis. His own heart began to beat faster, voice trembling and high “I don’t think you hate me at all!” <em>WE DO! </em></p><p>“ Nawwww. In fact,” his voice lowered and he hunched over to survey the crowd once more. It quieted as if on cue. “The truth is...you actually <em>love me!”</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>The responding roar of collective outraged denial was so loud that Ed’s ears were ringing. He cackled.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>HATE YOU! HATE YOU! HATE YOU!</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>“WHO can beat this evil foe?” Cherry had materialized at Ed’s side, talon-like nails resting on his shoulder. “Who can SAVE US?”</p><p> </p><p>Ed felt vibrations on the floor, the stomp of many heavy feet on warped wooden floorboards. The mood was turning ravenous. The air frothed like a school of piranha. For the first time, it occurred to Ed that <em>maybe</em> he went a little overboard.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>KILL HIM! KILL HIM! KILL HIM!</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>A shadow loomed overhead. Ed turned and raised his hands in front of his face playfully, hoping that the biker who had decided to enter the ring was in on the act. Too little too late, his face warped from a mask of fear to true fright.</p><p> </p><p>There was a crack of fist meeting flesh. The crowd roared.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, I know I’ve said this a lot, but that was <em>really </em>stupid,” said Lee said as she finished patching Ed up. He had sustained flesh wounds by the time Grundy had pushed through the cheering crowd to pull Ed’s assailant off of him.</p><p> </p><p>“Grundy sorry,” the behemoth said, staring at his feet. As if that could ever be enough.</p><p> </p><p>“No problem, buddy!” Ed looked past Lee to him, raising out a friendly hand in a wave. That sack of stinking flesh was lucky he was earning so much money. Otherwise….</p><p> </p><p>“Did you see how much the crowd ate it up?” Ed asked Lee. “We- <em>you </em>can use this, surely. Think up a way to make more money.”</p><p> </p><p>Lee’s eyebrows lowered into a look...considerably more unsympathetic.”Whatever. I don’t want anything to do with it.”</p><p> </p><p>“I just- know him. <em>So </em>much better than <em>these people.</em>” Ed persisted. “Know his <em>weaknesses…”</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>Lee’s oncoming retort was interrupted by a gaggle of street urchins bursting into the room. “That’s him!” one said in a loud voice all children have at a certain age. “<em>Penguin…”</em></p><p> </p><p>“Er,” said Ed, “you know, I’m not really him. You know that, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course we fucking know that,” a cute little girl spat back at him. Ed wilted away from her. Jeez. Lee tilted her head, considering him from the corner of her eye.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, guys, let him rest-”</p><p> </p><p>“We want to be in your next show!” another child interrupted. Ed perked up. <em>Next show? </em></p><p>
  
</p><p>“I’m...sure I can think of some starring roles for all of you.” he flashed them a smile and hopped off the bench Lee had been using as a makeshift clinic table.</p><p> </p><p>Lee sighed but did not follow as the gaggle of urchins led Ed out toward a dressing room in one of the back rooms of the bar. It made sense for there to be costumes lying around, he supposed. The fight matches were little more than bloody performance. Most fights in Gotham seemed to require costuming these days.</p><p> </p><p>There were some...artifacts lying around that resembled Penguin’s signature style. A Victorian style overcoat. A vest. There was even an incredibly broken umbrella lying in a dusty corner. Ed raised it with a flourish.</p><p> </p><p>An older boy with dirt on his cheek brandished a strange looking headpiece at him, the front bent into a nasty metal hook. “I reshaped that,” the boy bragged, “you can wear it to get his Jew nose.”</p><p> </p><p>“Um,” Ed stuttered, truly startled as the piece was waved in front of his face. “I don’t think he’s...I mean. Actually, I don’t know whether he is. Uh. Jewish. But you really shouldn’t...”</p><p> </p><p>He trailed off as the boy simply looked at him. Aw, hell. Was it really worth explaining to this kid the dangers and wrongs of this sort of bigotry? Ed should just take the stupid headpiece. Well- no. He should say <em>something</em>, right? Yes. Ignore it. No.</p><p> </p><p>Through this tedious deliberation of deciding whether to prevent a future hate crime, an idea fell right into his hapless lap. His eyes brightened. This reminded him of a story, actually. An old Jewish tale, of an evil oppressor torturing his helpless subjects, brought down by a protector made of mud and clay. He motioned the rest of the children over conspiratorially.</p><p> </p><p>“...Have yall ever heard the story of The Golem?”</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>He sits at his rinky dink dressing room mirror. He’ll be on soon, by the sound of the crowd and the crunch of bone tearing through flesh. Tonight’s opening matches have been severely unbalanced.</p><p> </p><p>With the collar of his heavy black coat turned up, his hair in fluffy spikes and The Nose firmly on his face, he was still no Penguin. But he was clearly recognizable as the part he had chosen to play: a mockery.</p><p> </p><p>He stares into the wells of his own eyes and furrows his brow. Now would the time to get into character. To become a boogeyman so bold it would knock the crowd right back into their seats. He used to be able to do that on his own. Now he grasped at that very same power by slipping into an ill fitting, distorted skin.</p><p> </p><p>Talk about folklore- wasn’t that how it always went? A jackass braying while wearing a lion’s skin. A wife’s cry of anguish when her husband burns her seal fur cloak. A princess tricking a monster into whittling itself away by shedding her shifts and bidding him to do the same. Peeling away one thing to forever expose what was lying underneath.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I know you, Ed.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>And I know <em>you </em>Oswald, Ed thinks venomously. However much Oswald had played up his emotional instability and penchant for tantrums for the sake of manipulation, those same flaws remained. Self awareness a cure did not make. His soul remained a greedy maw, forever hungry no matter how much it gorges itself. His actions as “King” showed as much. Hah- he was better off as a fool. Refusing to completely stitch his dripping heart up in the vain hope that love will fall in one day...</p><p> </p><p>His reflection’s lip curled.</p><p> </p><p>His brain may be broken now. He might even have been a little <em>off </em>before. Sick in the head with an illness that made him oh so predictable. Because when he turned his interest to any one thing, or idea, or <em>person,</em> he became <em>obsessed. </em>But at <em>least </em>he had been wise enough to let his inner wounds scab up and heal. Because-</p><p> </p><p>His hands curled tightly around his own knees.</p><p> </p><p>“Because it would’ve been idiotic to <em>bleed </em>for me,” said his reflection, gaze as levelled and cool as Oswald’s had been. Dismissive. Ed chose to believe that his own lips were moving as well. The reflection’s head tilted in a recognizable, bird-like way. Calculating as a raven, and just as perceptive. He was using <em>that </em>tone, the one Oswald used when he thought he had someone completely figured out. </p><p> </p><p>“Would it have been so bad, Ed? To let me bite away at you until nothing remained?” He leaned forward, too-thin form almost pressed against the glass. Ed was helpless as he followed suit. “You were <em>mine </em>to be devoured, and no one else-”</p><p> </p><p>“NO!” Ed shouted, one palm coming to slam against the glass. The backboard of the mirror shook. The reflection’s gaze flickered to its own raised palm dismissively. Ed closed his eyes and let out a long breath. It was one of the few therapeutic techniques he had learned in Arkham that actually worked. Deep breath. In and out.</p><p> </p><p>He lowered himself back into his seat and opened his eyes. His reflection had reverted to just that- him- but it didn’t matter.</p><p> </p><p>“Is <em>that </em>why you had me frozen?” He asks himself. “I thought it was just humiliation, but- you <em>really </em>can’t let me go, can you? And then letting me live after the escape. Because I’m no longer the Riddler, just a <em>shadow of Ed</em>, but...you loved Ed too, didn’t you? Pathetic as I was. As I s-still am…”</p><p> </p><p>He thinks back to the showdown at the Iceberg Lounge. Oswald had gotten him to admit there was something wrong with him. There was no denying it, then. His best- and only, if he was really being honest- attribute, gone. Maybe forever. The realization had hit him like an ink-black wave as some remaining thread inside him <em>snapped.</em> Maybe it would be better then, to be displayed. Perfectly preserved, but good as dead.</p><p> </p><p>Of course, he couldn’t even have that, could he?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>A better revenge is having you live, knowing you are not ‘him’. And you never will be again.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>The look in Oswald’s eyes had been different, then, too. There was no pity to be had, though Ed had been in a considerably worse state than he had been at the pier. Removed. Like Ed was nothing more than a scuff on his shoe.</p><p> </p><p> It was oddly logical, wasn’t it? Oswald finally had the option to reject Nygma, just as Nygma had rejected him time and time again. It was a moment no doubt internally savored. The power structure back in its proper place. Ed was as lowly to him now as he had been during their fateful first meeting. Not even worthy to be owned and displayed by such a righteous <em>king.</em></p><p> </p><p>He grit his teeth. His face contorted into a snarl as he felt the familiar green heat of anger lick into his chest.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you think you’re being clever, biding your time like this? So certain of what I’ll do. You <em>really </em>think I’ll return with my tail between my legs once I figure out a way to fix myself again. And become a partner oh so <em>deserving </em>of you. Fall over myself to <em>impress you </em>the way that poor, stupid Ed had when he nursed you back to health. Because in your little black heart of hearts, you still believe I-”</p><p> </p><p>He lowered his head and scoffed, cheeks suddenly warm. If he were a little smarter, he was sure he could think of a riddle for this scenario. So many little ways to twist the meaning of the word instead of coming out and saying it.</p><p> </p><p> But as it was, he still had enough intelligence to know one thing for sure, one core idea he lived by no matter how much of his mind was shut off or in need of repair: he would <em>never </em>let go of his pride for someone so gluttonous and childish. What had Oswald said, about compulsive, rational actions? More predictable than his own self admitted volatile emotions, was it?</p><p> </p><p>“You’re on in five,” a stagehand called, jolting him back from his inner reflections. Just as well, he thought, grabbing his umbrella and rising from his seat. He had realized enough to get into character already.</p><p> </p><p><em>How’s this for illogical emotionalism?</em> he asked the man in his mirror with a parting glare. <em>I’d rather remain loveless and empty until the day that I die. Whether I steal back my monstrous skin, or remain as naked and pathetic as the day I was born. </em></p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Whatever hooks you might think you have in my heart- they aren’t strong enough to drag me back to you.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>___</em>
</p><p>
  <strong>“And now…the most hated man in all of Gotham!”</strong>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Edward appears hunched over his umbrella, backlit, and creating the most sinister of long shadows. The crowd boos.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s this now?” Ed hisses as he stalks across the ring with a pronounced limp. The tip of his umbrella prods out in front of him like a spear. “Come on now. You love me!” He rests on the umbrella like it’s a cane, half hunched and waving queenlike at the crowd as if ignorant of their jeers.</p><p> </p><p>Ed turns the corners of his mouth down and sticks his lower lip out. “No! I said love me! <em>Love me! Wahh!</em>” he stamps his foot petulantly.</p><p>
  
</p><p><em>NO! </em>The crowd screams. Ed sees Lee at the edge of the crowd roll her eyes and turn away. He pays her no further mind.</p><p> </p><p>“Hurmph! I shall have to punish you then!” a rattling alarm goes off as two children run on stage, one dressed as a gangster and the other a copper. “I am going to sick my lackeys on you!” The crowd tempers their rage into amusement at the sight, which is just as well. The last thing Ed needed was <em>another </em>ring jumper. He waddles in place and honks as they play out their bit.</p><p> </p><p>But then in a piece of theatrical genius thought up by himself truly, the children flee and the lights ringing the stage turn down to a single point. His figure is too brightly lit, the illuminated parts washed out to near white and the shadowed parts black as pitch. His posture straightens. He confidently rests his hands on the umbrella handle in front of him, and glares at the grumbling from beneath his brow. Playtime is over.</p><p> </p><p>He tilts his head up and fixes his audience with a tight lipped smile, eyes wide and almost bulging. Cold and disdainful of all those that stood below him. No more important than a scuff on his Italian leather shoe.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, you’re angry at me?” He smirks. “Well<em> so what?</em>”</p><p> </p><p>The crowd is growing silent now. Paralyzed in a feeling they probably could not yet name. But Ed knew that feeling on an intimate level. Some hidden part of his mind must have still been conscious in the ice, aware of what was happening to him.  It was that very same part that whispered it now: <em>powerlessness. </em></p><p>
  
</p><p><em>“</em>See, you’re too weak.” His voice turns condescending. Explaining the way of the world to a child, or someone like one. Eyes scrunched in a hollow smile.</p><p> </p><p>“And what that means, is that I can do <em>whatever</em> I want to you!”  He swallows suddenly. Something clicks in the back of his throat, but he powers through the discomfort.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>And there is </em>nothing <em>you can do about it!”</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>He was lucky the script called for a pause. For a long moment, as Ed surveys the dread-filled crowd with a look of sadistic glee, he could not speak if he tried.</p><p> </p><p>   He turns his head left and right, as if searching for someone. He cackles, placing his hands on his belly to exaggerate how it rises and falls. Takes a moment when staring right at the ceiling to blink rapidly before facing forward again with a newly hardened gaze.</p><p> </p><p>“Just as I thought!” he sneers. “None of you are strong enough to stop me!”</p><p> </p><p>Never had Cherry’s been so quiet. There were no more murmurs in the back or orders being shouted at the bar. All inhabitants seemed to be holding their breath.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>I WILL STOP YOU!” </em>Grundy roars from the back. Right on cue.</p><p> </p><p>The lights lift. The crowd screams and cheers in relief.  It parts like the sea to let Grundy through, its denizens grasping to touch him as if he were a saint. The next part, the part where Grundy wraps his hands around the Penguin’s neck and wrings it, was well rehearsed beforehand. Ed would choke out his dying gasps. Cry a little, maybe. Plead pathetically, for sure. Oh, how the crowd would love him for it.</p><p> </p><p>Edward Nygma, resident clown and simpleton. The absolute worst thing about being an idiot, by far, was that he no longer thought about consequences. A smarter mind might consider potential costs of his buffoonery. Might realize that it was wise to assume that the king’s eyes and ears were everywhere. A smarter man might even remember how <em>sensitive </em>Oswald got in times of stress. How his feathers ruffled so messily after defeat. What his favorite <em>pastime </em>for letting anger out was. How unfortunate, then, that poor Ed is too dumb to realize all that.</p><p> </p><p>He raises his hands up in a mock form of pleading as his foe looms menacingly above him.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Pleeeeeese comment :3c</p></blockquote></div></div>
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